I was 14 - the same age as Eden McCrorey in Amber Smith’s debut YA novel, The Way I Used To Be. Tears streamed down my face, and by the time his drunken body had enough groping and grinding against my body, I curled up into a ball. It was my wrists pinned to dry summer grass, a drunk 20-something guy slithering his tongue into my mouth, forcing my own into his, and his heavy body crushing me into the ground while thousands of strangers roamed footsteps away at an outdoor concert. No, it wasn’t what my friends said it would be, either: sloppy, awkward, heart pounding. My first kiss wasn’t what Seventeen magazine said it would be: an explosion of fireworks and epiphanies happening under a velvety black sky full of stars. Sexual assault, no matter how hard I've tried to laugh it off, never ceases to be a mood killer. I suddenly didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth was not an option. It became so natural to me that it wasn’t until I was a junior in college, sharing stories of “firsts” with close friends, that the repressed memory came surging forward, sending me into a cold sweat. It was like rolling a pair of dice, and no matter how they landed, I’d never have to reveal number one. My second, third, or tenth kiss became my new first. For the last several years, I’ve lied about my first kiss.
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